


Postcards From Azkaban

by davonysus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Coming Out, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pen Pals, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Slow Burn, an attempt at prison reform, boys who won't talk about their feelings, canon? i don't know her, i have definitely forgotten to tag something, like the slowest of slow burns, this is just a self-indulgent redemption arc fic okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25935154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davonysus/pseuds/davonysus
Summary: It's easier to spill your thoughts and feelings when you will never meet the wizard on the receiving end of your letters.In an attempt to help prisoners reintegrate into society after their time in Azkaban, a pen pal system is introduced. Harry has withdrawn from wizarding society and signs up, desperate for a chance to be anonymous. Draco takes part in hopes of shortening his sentence. Neither of them knows who is on the other end of their words.Cue a lot of angst, confusion and interesting revelations as the boys try and navigate their futures in a post-Voldemort world: something they'd never put a lot of thought into.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44





	1. Part 0: The Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Trust me when I say there will be a happy ending but it will come at a cost - I want to address the PTSD/variety of mental health issues that absolutely everyone must be dealing with post-war, along with how many were treated after making poor choices to save their lives and families.
> 
> SLOW BURN. Like. The slowest of slow. Lots of cute moments leading up to it though, along with a hell of a lot of angst. Buckle up, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!
> 
> This is my first time posting on here so thanks for reading and I'm so excited to share this passion project with you all!

His eyes were locked on the stone floor beneath his feet as the guards either side of him forced him into the chair in the center of the room. Hardly daring to breathe for fear it would be too loud in the silence that surrounded him, Draco clenched his fists as tightly as he could with his hands shackled together and hoped desperately that the shake he could feel in his body wasn’t as outwardly obvious as it was for him.

The room had been bustling with noise and activity moments ago and until he had stepped into the crowd’s line of vision, he had thought the sounds around him would drive his nerves to the edge. He hadn’t realised how much worse it would be once they saw him and began to stare. Anyone who hadn’t already been seated immediately fell into place as a hush swept through the courtroom and though he had been adamant that he wouldn’t drop his gaze, the pitying looks were simply too much for him to bear.

Draco was dressed in a shade of deep blue— _“Not green or black, darling, you know they’ll need little reason to associate you with your past”—_ wearing perfectly tailored robes that he used to save for days when he’d visited the Ministry with his father and wanted to seem important. They weren’t enough to make him feel powerful anymore. His mother’s idea to have him dressed to the nines was in hopes of reminding everyone that he was an upstanding citizen who deserved sympathy; Draco thought dressing in rags might have had a better chance at getting him the pity vote. It was unlikely anyone in this court room would forget his wrongdoings because of his appearance.

He had no idea who was there or how many people were present. All he knew was that he had never seen the Wizengamot chambers so full. Draco suspected this was because the Ministry had started allowing onlookers from the greater public in; viewing trials of well known Death Eaters being sent away for life in Azkaban was sure to boost morale.

Azkaban was a miserable thought, but one he’d had plenty of time to dwell on over the past few weeks alone at home. Draco had never really expected to come out of the war in a good situation, one way or another. In truth, he’d never spared much thought for what would happen when it all ended, because he’d never expected to make it out alive _. Small mercies,_ he thought with a grimace.

Once the Aurors had come to the Manor and started to see the damage it had taken through months of being used as the Dark Lord’s torture house, there was no way his family was walking free. The fact that he’d been granted a few more weeks there should have been a small consolation but these days the Manor felt haunted. Feeling confident in the Malfoys’ inability to leave while under 24/7 guard, the Aurors turned the place upside down searching for surviving prisoners and additional evidence to use against Death Eaters in trial. Draco had felt sick watching it.

Shacklebolt was leading the hearing and his voice—though low in volume—drew everyone to attention. Calling the session to order, shuffling was heard as the crowd presumably settled into their seats.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are here today before the Council of Magical Law accused with the crimes of following He Who Must Not Be Named and taking the Dark Mark. You are further accused of housing him and his Death Eaters in the Malfoy Manor, keeping prisoners in the cellars, torturing muggles, allowing Death Eaters into Hogwarts during your time there as a student and fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts, seeking to bring Harry Potter to He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Though Draco refused to look up at this point, he could feel the gazes of the witches and wizards fixating back on where he was seated in the middle of the room.

“We have heard the evidence against you, however before we reach our verdict we have a few additional witness statements to consider.”

Salazar, they had witnesses. Draco hadn’t even thought about who might be called on to speak during his trial. He doubted anyone in his family would be allowed to take the stand and his fellow Slytherins who’d been with him through the last few years were in Ministry custody or unable to be located from what he’d read.

“The prosecutor calls our first witness to the stand.”

Hands shaking to the point that the chains around them were clinking against his chair, Draco felt a bead of sweat slide down the side of his face as he tried not to turn and watch whoever was making such loud, echoing footsteps behind him. _Deep breaths_ , he thought, not for the first time today. _You can do this, Draco. You’re a Malfoy. Malfoy’s don’t cower._

“State your full name,” Shacklebolt said, barely heard over the loud gasps and mutters that had broken out around the chambers.

“Harry James Potter.”

* * *

Harry felt like he had been hit by the Whomping Willow.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He looked up from the cracked tile he had been examining on the Atrium floor and tried not to grimace at the concerned look on Hermione’s face, dropping his gaze once more. Subtlety had never truly been her strong point, though he could tell she was trying to hide it as best she could. It was just starting to wear on his nerves, noticing the furtive glances sent his way during the rare moments he had to catch his breath.

He appreciated it, he truly did. He’d never had anyone to care about him before Hogwarts, and Harry definitely wasn’t about to take his friends for granted after all that they’d been through. It was just—

“Harry!”

“Sorry, Hermione. Yes?” He forced his eyes to focus on hers.

She sighed. “Don’t worry about it. How are you feeling after all that?”

“All what?”

“Harry.” She paused and he heard the papers in her hand shifting as she fidgeted. “That wasn’t a normal day, even by your standards. I just…”

“What?” Now Hermione was determinedly not making eye contact with him. “Normal isn’t something I’m used to, remember?”

She smiled sadly and her shoulders slumped. “I know. But it’s not every day you testify to save someone’s life for the second time.”

Locking eyes with the cracked corner of the tile once more, Harry played with the end of his robe sleeve as he thought about how to respond. He had hoped, stupidly, that maybe he could get away without talking about what had happened that morning. She was right of course—Hermione always was—but that didn’t make it any easier to talk about. The truth was Harry hadn’t even had the time to process how he felt or what had even been said in the court room. The past weeks had all been such a blur and though he’d been present for many trials, even spoken at a few, this was the first where Harry had felt the need to really defend the person in the chair.

Funny how he’d spent years of his life wishing Malfoy ill and now that he had the power to send the git away, he was trying to save his ass. It just didn’t feel right after all they’d been through to leave things as they were. Not after Malfoy saved his life in the Manor. Not after seeing the fear in his eyes during those moments in the Room of Requirement. Did Harry wish that Malfoy had chosen a different option back in sixth year? Of course. Did he hate him for it? Honestly… He wasn’t sure anymore. It was hard to have hatred for anything these days. He just felt a constant sense of exhaustion and emptiness.

“I just…” His voice cracked, and Harry swallowed before trying again. “He looked awful. Worse than sixth year. He deserves Azkaban for what he did, but I feel bad about it.”

“I know,” Hermione said gently. “Malfoy was just a kid. We all were.”

Harry shook his head. “No, Hermione. That doesn’t matter. If we could make the right choices, so could he.”

She sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”

The silence hung between them for a moment and Harry played with his sleeve as he tried hard not to think about Malfoy sitting in front of the Wizengamot. Harry had barely seen him since sixth year and hadn’t spared much thought for what would become of him after the war ended. It was strange, considering the amount of time he had spent thinking about Malfoy during their last year together at Hogwarts. Even dressed in robes that looked stupidly expensive, there was no hiding how ragged Malfoy looked. His cheeks had hollowed out and there were shadows under his eyes that Harry felt echoed in his own face. They hadn’t made eye contact but Harry felt certain that if they had, he would have seen his own nightmares and sleepless nights reflected. Perhaps that was why he’d felt so compelled to speak up for Malfoy’s good deeds, few as they may have been.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the sentencing?” Hermione asked.

He shook his head, then brushed a hand through his hair as he looked up at her once more. “I’ll feel shit either way. Malfoy goes to Azkaban, my fault. Malfoy walks free, my fault.”

“His decisions are not your fault, Harry.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll …” He sighed, feeling the exhaustion finally hit. “I’ll find out later, I suppose. Home?”

She offered him a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure. Should we grab lunch on the way?”

“We could stop at the sandwich place by Grimmauld so we don’t have to talk to anyone.”

Hermione laughed at this, and nodded.

“Great. And takeout for dinner? The Thai place looks great.”

“I asked Kreacher to cook tonight.”

“But you hate letting—oh.” Harry groaned. “No. Now you’re treating me like I’m fragile. I’m fine.” At her raised eyebrows, he continued. “Really! It was just another stupid trial.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione shook her head and then began making her way towards the Atrium exits so they could apparate back to Grimmauld Place. Harry sighed before following her lead, secretly grateful to Hermione’s lapse in judgement because really, nobody made pies quite like Kreacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing updates on [tumblr](https://davonysus.tumblr.com), come say hi!


	2. Part 1: Solitary

Harry didn’t know if he would ever stop running.

Even now, laying in his bed at Grimmauld Place staring at the grubby ceiling above him his mind was racing a millions miles an hour. His entire body ached right to the core, with no logical explanation other than pure emotional exhaustion and many sleepless nights. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected after the war was over; truthfully, he’d never had the chance to think about its possibility. He definitely hadn’t spared a thought to think about all of the public appearances he’d be invited to make. No, if he’d ever actually taken a spare second to fantasise about a world without Voldemort, it seemed a lot more peaceful than the one he was now living in.

Wanting nothing more than to sink into the mattress beneath him and disappear, Harry let out a loud sigh and spelled a quick _Tempus_ , seeing that he only had about ten minutes until they would be flooing over to the Ministry. Behind his glasses he was fighting a losing battle with his eyelids, threatening to remain closed with every blink. The six—seven?—coffees he’d already had that day didn’t seem to be doing much for him by this point and he wondered if he could get his hands on more Wideye potion. Hermione wouldn’t approve but Kreacher had been so thrilled to have Harry home that surely he would be able to find some.

Ron had offered to let Harry stay with him last night so he wouldn’t be kept up by the constant scratching of Hermione’s quill and muttering at the disorganisation of documents she was poring over on the kitchen table, but in truth Harry was glad of her distraction. He suspected Hermione knew what he was up to, but she’d given up scolding him weeks ago and had instead settled for sending disappointed glares at him when he stumbled too close to her. Most nights were just exhausting, spent in a half-asleep haze perusing the empty rooms of Grimmauld Place and doing everything he could to keep his mind away from what sleep would bring.

The nights he slept were the worst.

Harry quickly learned in the days following the Battle of Hogwarts that he screamed in his sleep. The nightmares were nothing new. The pain that came with them just seemed to intensify as time went by. Hermione had woken him the first night; they had opted to stay at Grimmauld Place in lieu of the Burrow to give the Weasleys some room to grieve, a decision which now seemed to be for the best. The look in her eyes was enough for him to place a silencing charm on his door every night following, but sometimes he had still woken feeling as if he was being watched. After a few more days of this routine Harry had decided that sleep was no longer a priority and now bore her judgemental yet worried stares with a grain of salt.

Lifting his glasses enough to wipe his other hand across his eyes, Harry yawned and forced his body upright. Scooting forward on the bed so that his toes were brushing the hardwood floor he called for Kreacher before considering that perhaps he should have dressed prior to inviting the elf in.

“Master Harry was calling for Kreacher?” The elf said as he bowed low, Regulus’ locket just about touching the floor with the movement. Straightening up, he fixed a stern look in Harry’s direction as he took in the scene in front of him.

“Er, yeah. Is there any Wideye potion left?”

“Kreacher thinks that if master wants to be drinking so much of it, he should be keeping his rooms cleaner while he stays awake all night,” Kreacher muttered under his breath.

Harry groaned, leaning back to lay on the bed so he wouldn’t have to look at the disappointment on Kreacher’s face as the elf examined a stray sock that had landed in his bin at some point.

“Kreacher—“

“—Master does not even want Kreacher to clean for him, no, Master Harry says the Muggle-born is upset by Kreacher’s cleaning—“

“—Hermione doesn’t like you cleaning, she thinks it’s—“

“—But Master does not clean himself, so Kreacher thinks unless the Muggle-born is going to clean up after Master—“

“—KREACHER!”

The old elf stopped muttering at Harry’s raised voice and with a frustrated exhale, Harry sat upright again.

“What if… What if you get me some of that Wideye I know you’ve got downstairs somewhere, and I let you sort out this mess?” He gestured to the room around him as Kreacher’s wrinkled face lit up with excitement. Raising an index finger to his mouth, Harry lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned forward. “But you can’t tell Hermione. Okay?”

Kreacher bowed low once more, locket shaking as he shivered with anticipation. “Master wants Kreacher to be keeping secrets from the Muggle-born,” he muttered as he resumed his standing position. “Kreacher has never been told to do this before, Kreacher will be retrieving the potion now!”

With a snap, Kreacher disappeared before materialising again moments later, carrying a vial of shimmering blue liquid.

“Thanks, Kreacher.”

Harry took the proffered potion and threw it back in one gulp, grimacing slightly at the bitter aftertaste. He clenched his eyelids shut tight as he waited for the jolt of energy to hit, ever aware of how loud his breathing was in the silence around them. Having taken Wideye more often than not this past month, Harry knew almost to the second how long it took to come into effect and the fingers on his wand hand tapped impatiently as he counted down the moments.

_Three, two…_

Eyes opening of their own accord, Harry broke out into a grin as the familiar warmth washed over him from head to toe and the electrifying feeling that accompanied it started to run through his veins. He felt _alive_ , more than he had in such a long time, almost like a renewed sense of purpose had been bestowed upon him. Sure, his current purpose was just to make a few public appearances this afternoon but it felt less tedious now, like his attendance was meaningful and not simply a ploy to take away from the collective misery that inevitably followed a war full of loss and suffering.

“Master Harry looks much better!” Kreacher exclaimed, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Kreacher will be back to clean while Master is gone.”

Before Harry had the chance to thank him, the elf disappeared once more and after stretching his arms overhead and marvelling at his newfound vitality, Harry stood and began to locate something acceptable to wear from amongst the chaotic mountains of clothing and miscellaneous items strewn across his bedroom floor.

Humming something he vaguely recalled being played at last week’s celebratory gala, Harry fished a white crewneck out from under his bed and shouted in triumph as a clean-looking pair of white socks appeared beneath it. Placing them on top of his dresser he silently thanked Kreacher’s love of cleaning as he noticed the thick layer of dust buildup beside them.

As he pulled his legs into a pair of dark jeans Harry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced slightly, hating that even Wideye couldn’t do anything for the dark circles under his eyes and gaunt hollows of his cheeks. Perhaps he’d try his hand at glamours again; they couldn’t do much for his skeleton-like appearance, but at least he might looked well-rested. He grabbed his wand from where he’d left it on the bed and focused on his reflection in the mirror, whispering the words he’d grown so dependent on these past few weeks.

 _Much better_ , he thought as he took in the face that stared back at him. Though still slightly emaciated, his face looked brighter and if it weren’t for the haunted depths of his green eyes Harry would almost be convinced that he was perfectly alright.

Taking a seat on his bed once more, Harry summoned his shoes from beside the door where he’d kicked them off yesterday and slid the scuffed trainers on before grabbing a set of crumpled black robes off the floor, tossing them over his shoulder carelessly. One day he might master ironing spells but for now, he knew Hermione would take offence to them and do it for him. He stood and made his way over to the door, checking that he had his wand and grabbing a bag of galleons from atop the dresser to stuff into his robe pocket once he threw them on.

Opening the door, Harry froze as he saw Hermione standing in the hallway with her arms across her chest. She didn’t look impressed and he groaned inwardly as he realised she had likely heard most of his exchange with Kreacher.

“Er, morning Hermione.”

“It was noon two hours ago.” Her tone was sharp enough to cut glass, causing Harry to gulp nervously.

“Right, well, good afternoon then?” Cursing as his greeting came out as a question, Harry watched Hermione’s jaw tense.

“Harry James Potter. Did you really just give Kreacher orders to clean your room—“

“—they weren’t orders, he wants to do it—“

“—and on top of that, ask him for more Wideye potion despite me telling you explicitly on Tuesday that you needed to stop drinking it?”

 _Crap._ “Er, maybe?”

The silence that followed was even worse than if she’d been shouting, because it meant that Hermione was mad. Really, really mad.

“If it helps, I haven’t taken any in about 24 hours.”

“Oh, that’s fine then.” Her voice was icy and dripping in sarcasm as she uncrossed her arms and began gesturing wildly. “Are you serious? I didn’t tell you to stop for no reason, Harry. I’m not trying to be a—I don’t know, buzzkill? But that will literally kill you. You don’t understand how bad it is to have day after day. You shouldn’t really have it more than five days out of every month and you,” Her eyes were affixed upon him now, intent with concern beneath the angry front, “Have had it at least five days this last week alone. I also know you started taking it shortly after that first night we stayed here.”

He dropped his gaze to look at where he was poking the carpet with his trainer, unable to take the loving frustration directed at him.

“I’m just worried about you.”

The raw emotion in her pleading voice had Harry biting his lower lip as he felt a surge of emotions rush through him all at once. Affection for his caring friend clouded by a deep frustration; surely Hermione knew that he wasn’t doing this for fun? As if unbearable nightmares weren’t enough, there was the constant roster of events he was expected to attend and the fact that the entire world seemed to be leaning on his happiness for their own. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness, not even in the dark of night, for fear that he might give in to the pain as it became too much. It was easier like this. Ignoring it rather than facing his demons head-on and rushing into something, like he had for all of the past seven years. Shouldn’t she be proud of him for that?

“Harry.”

The break in her wavering voice was too much for him and he met her gaze, seeing watery eyes full of fear.

“I won’t push it any more right now,” she said, deflating. “Just… Just know you can talk to me about it, okay?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice at that moment. Seeing her smile even as tears threatened to spill from her eyes, he turned his head to allow her a moment of discretion before clearing his throat.

“Could you, y’know…” He gestured to the robes hanging over his left shoulder with a meek smile.

“You’re utterly hopeless,” she muttered fondly. “Yes, if only because I’m loathe to be seen with you wearing them as they are.”

Passing her his robes to charm flat, Harry felt a wave of gratitude wash over him as he realised that no matter how disappointed she may be with his choices sometimes, Hermione would always be there for him. The gratitude quickly gave way to guilt and he tried to swallow it down, wondering what he could do to make it up to her.

“You could start by telling Kreacher you’ll do your own cleaning,” she said as she handed the crisply-pressed robes back to him.

Slipping them on, Harry realised he’d said at least the last part of his musing aloud and sighed. “‘Mione, he was practically jumping for joy. I can’t take that away from him, it’d be cruel.”

“No crueller than keeping him as a slave to begin with,” she murmured.

Sighing, Harry resolved not to start this particular breed of argument again today. “Shall we?” He said, indicating to the stairwell just past them. “We’ll be late if we don’t leave soon.”

Leading the way with a backwards glance that screamed _We haven’t finished talking about this_ , Hermione started down the stairs and Harry fell into step behind her. Happy just to have made it out of Grimmauld without a proper argument, Harry pocketed the bag of galleons along with his wand and resumed humming the tune from earlier, drawing a snort from in front of him.

***

Watching Ron walk off to the bar for their next round, Harry drooped in his chair as he felt the weight of the past few days catching up to him. It was hard enough to stay switched on all the time for the benefit of society, let alone to keep his best mate in good spirits. Maybe he’d have to give into sleep tonight after all. He’d managed, what, four days? Five?

“Your glamour is dulling.”

Snapped out of his thoughts, Harry blinked rapidly as he tried to make sense of Hermione’s words. “What?”

She sighed. “Your eyes. They’re starting to look horrible again.”

After a moment it clicked, and he quickly raised both hands to cover his face. Voice muffled, he swore into them.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic. Here, move your hands.”

Peeking out from behind his fingers he saw Hermione drawing her wand and complied, placing his hands on the table between them.

“ _Mutare perspicus._ ”

Harry shuddered as the charm struck him between his eyes and closed them, waiting until the tingles that spread across his face had disappeared. When he looked up again he saw Hermione nodding her approval, even as disappointment coloured her features.

“Harry…” Hermione trailed off, voice wavering slightly as she said his name. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Mmm?”

“You know how we spoke about the, um, thing before we left the house this afternoon?”

Mirroring her, Harry glanced around to see many watchful eyes quickly turn away from them, clearly eavesdropping. He sighed, wishing that the public would take less interest in his life.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I was wondering…” She dropped her voice to a whisper and leaned in close across the table. “Could we go speak to someone at St Mungo’s? I know you’re not a huge fan,” She added hurriedly, “But it would really make me feel better about it and, um, they might be able to give you an alternative suggestion.”

Every fibre in his being wanted to scream _No!_ at the thought of setting foot in the bright, clinical building but seeing the desperation in Hermione’s eyes, he paused. Thinking it over as he took a long sip from his Butterbeer, Harry had to acknowledge that without his daily vice he wouldn’t last much longer without sleeping.

“I don’t really want to,” he admitted after a moment.

She placed a hand over his gently as she nodded. “I know. I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t worried about you, you know.”

“I just… I don’t really see how they’ll be able to help.” Shrugging, Harry withdrew his hand and downed the last of his Butterbeer. “Unless they’ve got some magic that’ll get rid of the… y’know.”

“Well, they could give you Dreamless Sleep while you’re there. I think you’ll need to get checked after taking so much Wideye though. Your heart is likely working twice as hard as it has to.”

“Wait.” Harry thought back to forth year and realised maybe he had an answer, after all. “If I take Dreamless Sleep at night I won’t need Wideye anymore, right?”

“Are you kidding me?!”

Freezing like a deer in headlights as Harry felt the eyes of the entire pub turn and stare, he sank down in as chair even as Hermione realised she may have shouted too loudly.

Dropping her voice, Hermione glared across the table at him. “You’d better be joking, Harry. Dreamless Sleep is like Wideye on steroids. Or technically the opposite, I suppose.” At his confused expression, she sighed. “See, you don’t know anywhere near enough about these things to just be taking them as you please!”

“Explain then,” he grumbled, slumping to lean his chin on one of his arms.

Launching into a detailed explanation complete with wild hand gestures and excited-if-slightly-maniacal eyes, Hermione compared Wideye and Dreamless Sleep to muggle drugs that Harry had heard about with their depressant and stimulant qualities.

“—So you see, taking too much of either breeds a dependence which is not only dangerous but hard to break. You’re likely already finding it harder to wake up each day without Wideye and Dreamless Sleep will be at the other end of the spectrum: you’ll find it near impossible to wind down without it.”

“But then… Why can’t I just take Wideye to cancel out Dreamless Sleep, and the other way around?”

Through her gritted teeth, Hermione all but growled at him. “Did you listen to anything I said?”

“Er, yeah. That’s why I suggested it?” Cowering slightly at the glare she shot him, Harry raised his hands defensively. “I was joking?”

Not buying it, Hermione raised her hands in despair. “They’re addictive, Harry! And lethal if there’s too much in your system. You’ll have to take more and more to get the same effect so eventually your body will simply shut down.”

Harry mindlessly ran a hand through his hair, nodding behind Hermione to indicate Ron’s imminent return. Trying not to fixate too closely on Hermione’s previous words, he instead took a long drink from the Butterbeer he’d been handed as he half-listened to Ron recount the trials of the day that Harry had thankfully been able to skip.

Nodding and making reactive noises as appropriate, Harry was staring across the bar as he idly tapped on the edge of his glass and didn’t realise what he was seeing until the panic hit him. Standing abruptly and drawing his wand, he sent all of their drinks flying as he knocked the table in the process. The smashing of glasses was background noise to him as his senses dulled until all he could focus on was the feeling of blood coursing through his veins in a white-hot rage.

It couldn’t be…

“Harry!”

“Mate, are you alright?”

His friends shouts were at first muffled and far away, as if he were in a memory that had been tampered with. It was only after someone touched his wand arm that the noise began to cut through the deafening roar of silence that had overtaken his body, shocking him back to reality.

“What’s going on?”

A shout from a nearby table was the final straw; by now he’d garnered the attention of the entire pub and felt as if he’d been plunged into the icy-cold depths of the Great Lake as all eyes focused on him. Gulping, he turned his pleading stare to Ron and Hermione in turn as he realised that something was amiss.

“I, er…”

“You alright, mate?”

Sitting shakily, he took in the scene around him and grimaced. “Sorry about the drinks. I’ll get more, shall I?”

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice was firm and he sunk into the chair, losing all possible resolve to pretend nothing had just happened.

“I thought… I thought I saw…”

“What? You saw what?” Ron’s concern was apparent and Harry cursed whatever had come over him.

“It’s nothing, just…” Locking eyes with Hermione now, he nodded in defeat. “St Mungo’s, then?”

She raised her eyebrows but simply returned the nod, Ron beside her looking back and forth between them like they were a particular interesting Quidditch match. He couldn’t blame him; if their roles were reversed he’d be equally as confused and curious. Harry just wasn’t about to admit to either of them that he’d apparently started hallucinating.

That was the only logical explanation he had for seeing Voldemort standing across the bar.

***

The cell was damp and musty, unsurprising when Draco considered that the island was shrouded in perpetual rain. But for one corner where there appeared to be a crack in the ceiling, there was no light from above and the small amount of light coming in from between the cell bars was just enough to see how dusty they were. The floor was cold beneath his thin prison-issued socks and felt uneven but worn down, no doubt by the pacing of occupants before him. Though he knew that the dementors had vacated their positions he couldn’t shake the feeling of despair and hopelessness that cloaked him; the chill in the air seemed less weather-induced than he cared to admit. Above all, Draco felt lost. He was alone for the foreseeable future and while he was no stranger to isolation, it had usually been his own decision. 

Over the past years he’d sought out solitude more than ever before, despite being surrounded by schoolmates and houseguests at every turn. Draco had become an expert at Occlumency out of necessity—though he had already been excellent after years of forced training from extended relatives and his head of house—and knew better than anyone the importance of clearing your mind when people may be listening. He didn’t think there was much chance of needing to block out unwanted visits here but instead was thankful for the knowledge he’d gained, because now he could apply it to himself. The possibility of spending years in this cell was more time than Draco cared to spend alone with his thoughts and the longer he could prolong the onslaught of emotion, the better. He knew it was only a matter of time until he truly had to process what he had experienced but for now, this was the course of action.

He looked down to the stone floor under his lightly-clad feet and sighed. The sparse rays of light highlighted how filthy it was in less-travelled corners but also how worn down the vast majority was, and he loathed to think of how he would be inevitably pacing within a few weeks. It was a shock to his system to be alone in an unfamiliar place after weeks of supervision prior to being sentenced. He hated it, all of it. The unjustness of his situation, the choices he’d had to make, the fact that he was living in a cell and the fact that he had no escape. What Draco truly hated most was the fact that in a place so full of misery and darkness, he felt lighter than he had in years. And more than anything, he hated admitting that, even just to himself.

The war was over. The war was lost, but it was over. And by this point in his life Draco honestly had little emotional energy to spare over the outcome. Yes, he was in a cell. But had his side won he would have continued to live with the Dark Lord and fear for his family, his own future. There was no positive to either of those situations and he was angrier with himself for feeling relieved than he was with the fact that his efforts were for nothing. He had been raised to believe so many truths but after so much time spent being forced to obey, Draco couldn’t bring himself to care about anything more than survival. That’s what this cell was for him. Guaranteed survival. As long as he continued to view it as such, he could pretend he wasn’t happy about the way things had turned. Glad to have seen the downfall of the movement he had fought so desperately to save.

It went against everything he knew to be breathing easier than before at a time when everything should have been falling apart. Then again, his life had been so many “should have”s lately without enough questioning on his part. It takes a lot to question all you’ve ever known, even when its flaws are staring you in the face. He had been just a kid, he was barely of age and to be at a place where he could admit it was something almost admirable but it triggered so much unease inside him that he felt physically ill.

Refusing to give in to the bile he felt rising in his throat, Draco took a few more steps towards the far wall. Keeping his gaze on the beige-tan-sand-had-once-been-white wool on his feet, he slowly made his way until he reached the pile of fabric that appeared to be his sleeping arrangements. This fabric also lacked a definitive colour, looking ragged and worn thin in so many places he doubted it would last the entirety of his stay. He had never seen something so clearly in need of replacing, despite his parents’ employing multiple house elves who dressed in rags and attending school with the Weasleys.

If he was being honest with himself—which he was trying very hard not to be right now—the robes he had been given upon arrival weren’t in a much better state, or the thin underclothes that now covered him. There was a draft coming in from gaps in the stone that were too thin to see but clearly wide enough to chill him to his bones, and with the flimsy pieces of material he was allowed in here he didn’t even know if he’d make it one night without catching a head cold. Draco wondered if they’d administer Pepper-Up for it. It was known that Azkaban had no healers. They’d sooner let everyone rot away to nothing in here than take away the precious resources needed at St Mungo’s and the like.

He hated to admit his worries about spending the next few months in a tiny, windowless cell that had the capability of freezing him to death and rendering him insane when such a large part of him felt a strange feeling of peace and safety. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that nobody who wished him harm could reach him here without a lot of connections that had surely died with the Dark Lord. The part of him singing out for safety was also the part of him that hoped he didn’t survive the cold chills and insanity, and Draco didn’t know what to make of this information. He only hoped he could cling onto what little dignity and mental strength he had left until his sentence was lifted. 

Gingerly using his toe to lift the edge of the pile in front of him, Draco shuddered at his reality and his train of thought halted. He was a prisoner. A convicted criminal, in Azkaban. He knew it was temporary, that surely they couldn’t keep him in here indefinitely; the Wizengamot had been trying to put away as many Death Eaters as possible to make an example of them and instill faith in the public but a few glowing testimonies in his favour had worked wonders for the possibility of spending any time less than life here. His mind was just stuck on an infinite loop of Shacklebolt’s voice saying “Draco Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to Azkaban,” before two stern guards had grabbed either bicep and carted him out of the hearing room to a temporary holding cell within the Ministry.

His thoughts wandered back to earlier that week when he hadn’t known if he would make it out of there alive. The Dementor’s kiss was outlawed, sure, but that didn’t inspire any feelings of ease in Draco. He knew better than to assume anything after all he had lived through. The thought of falling victim to their kiss was horrible, but worse than even that was the stares he had gotten upon arrival at the ministry. Some looks were scathing, filled with hatred and anger, but the ones that haunted Draco the most were the eyes that seemed to pity him. As if they knew how much he hadn’t wanted to be involved in everything surrounding him, the decisions he never got to make. He hated those stares. They knew nothing of his situation, no matter what they might have heard. No doubt they’d heard the words of one of the people who had testified to keep him out of Azkaban. He wanted to feel grateful and he was sure if he listened closely enough, a hidden part of him was appreciative. 

It had been a strange experience, to say the least. Honestly, Draco was trying to lump it in with everything else he had sworn not to ruminate on once he was behind bars; the memories it dredged up were too confronting.

No, Draco was perfectly content to ignore the fact that along with the rest of the Wizarding world, his arch nemesis was now his saviour. The bloody Chosen One. He refused to admit that perhaps there was still some resentment and embarrassment hanging around from their first day at Hogwarts and more than that, the chance of any feelings he’d had towards Potter other than pure loathing and disgust. What had happened earlier this week was no different. Frankly, he should be feeling more pissed off with the scrawny prat - if he was such a powerful witness, Draco shouldn’t have ended up behind bars!

The sentence length was of little consequence; Draco knew that staying out of there in the first place would guarantee his survival, in whatever form it took, whereas being sent to Azkaban with the possibility of a shorter term meant little in the way of actually leading to his release. They may have mentioned early release to house arrest but considering the social status of his witness stand, he thought it wise to assume it was all a front for the public. They needed reassurance, of course, that Potter’s opinion held value! Therefore to give him a life sentence publicly would be to tarnish the very saviour they all held in such high regard. Clearly Shacklebolt had no intention of freeing Draco, given his history and the side he had chosen. Yes, this was all for public morale. Best to ensure faith in the Chosen One and also get Draco behind bars, so they could indefinitely extend his term until there was no future left for him to follow beyond insanity or starvation.

What a miserable thought. Actually, what a miserable life. There was no point in pretending otherwise at this stage: Draco had long ago given up on the glamorous, exciting life as Malfoy heir that he had been promised as a young boy. What was once a title he revelled in boasting was now a trait that he wished he could run away from, a painful reminder of childhood dreams lay by the wayside. Surely it was better to have given up on a dream than on his life? He had given up all hope of survival in the past year, sure that his end was inevitable in the war or its aftermath, though unsure of the exact timeline. He wanted to be thankful for evading death for a while longer, yet being stuck with no company but his own thoughts for the next few years made him almost wish for it.

Particularly with his mind’s current offering - that Potter was the reason he had now twice evaded death this past month. This was definitely going to be a long sentence.


	3. Solitary

“Alright, Mister Potter. I’ll go get the Healer on duty and be back shortly.”

Harry thanked the nurse and waited until he left the room before sighing as he sank back down onto the bed, exhausted from the diagnostic spells and questioning he’d been subjected to.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a moment to simply enjoy the feeling of stillness he felt. It had been far too long since he’d allowed himself to stretch out properly in his bed and despite the bustle of noises and too-stiff sheets beneath him, Harry felt almost at peace for a moment. He took a deep breath which gave way to a yawn and smiled softly as his eyelids grew heavier with every passing moment. Solitude seemed sweeter when he wasn’t battling his tired mind alone in his room at Grimmauld. Here at least Harry knew he was too surrounded to let any sleep come from this.

That was the thought on his mind as he finally gave in to his exhaustion and drifted off.

  
***

The echo of a scream dying in his throat as he came to, Harry’s first observation was that everything smelled abnormally clean and the harsh whites of the room around him stung his eyes as they adjusted. His hair was plastered across his forehead and the lenses over his eyes were fogged up from the heat he was radiating. Removing his glasses to rub against where they pressed into the bridge of his nose he berated himself for falling leaving them on as he slept and then it struck him: he hadn’t done it intentionally. No, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all. 

Because he was still in St Mungo’s.

Cursing, he moved to quickly sit up in the bed and grimaced as his stomach lurched with the motion. Bracing himself on his elbows he let out a heavy sigh and jammed his glasses back onto his face, his unfamiliar surroundings coming into focus. Ron and Hermione were in the far corner of the room by the entrance and an unfamiliar Healer stood opposite his bed, all slightly blurry even with his vision restored. He realised that someone had put up a _Protego_ between his bed and the rest of the room and hated to think of what his nightmares must have brought about in him.

Harry shifted awkwardly under their gazes and felt just how much sweat he was producing, the crewneck he’d pulled off the floor earlier now uncomfortably stuck to his torso. Sitting up slower this time, Harry rested his back against the pillows and adjusted the wet fabric around his neck while pointedly looking down at his trainers.

“That must have been quite the dream, Mister Potter.”

“Er…” Harry garnered nothing from the Healer’s expression as he met her blank stare. “I guess?”

Walking closer to where he sat, she dissolved the shimmering protection spell with an absent wave of her wand. Harry gulped as she then pointed the wand in his direction, flinching slightly before watching an intricate pulsing web of coloured threads appear above his body. It was mesmerising, something he thought he could stare at forever; if it weren’t for Hermione’s gasp in the corner Harry might have completely forgotten the reasons for its existence

The Healer tutted at what she saw, slight twists of her wrist pulling at individual threads so she could inspect them. Blue seemed to be the most prevalent colour—also the least concerning, from what he could tell of her responses—yet it was the twisted mass of gold near his stomach that captivated his attention. It shone bright but somehow managed to seem unwelcoming and dark, feelings that Harry had never before associated with the colour. So focused on the tangled threads, Harry missed the Healer’s question at first and only realised he was being addressed when the colours disappeared.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, nothing appears to have shifted since your diagnostic a few minutes ago.”

“Right.” Pausing, Harry tried and failed to make sense of her words. “Should something have changed?”

The Healer met his eyes and Harry felt a pang in his chest as he was reminded of Dumbledore; she seemed to see the unspoken words, everything he had omitted during his conversation with the nurse earlier. “To have exuded such raw magical energy in your sleep? Yes, Mister Potter. I had hoped there was an easier explanation for what appears to be happening.”

“I don’t really understand,” Harry said, twisting his hands into the sheets beneath him as he felt his throat start to close up. Was this a side effect of the colourful spell?

“Tell me, Mister Potter—”

“Just Harry’s fine,” he interjected as he tried not to suddenly curl in on himself. Why did his chest feel like it was burning from the inside out? What had she done?

“Harry, then. I am Healer Benson, on duty for the fourth floor tonight and from what I gathered during my discussion with Nurse Weilin and your diagnostics, this looked to be a simple case of stimulant overuse.”

Shaking now, Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. “Oh. That’s good then—”

Swiftly cut off by Healer Benson’s raised hand, Harry shrunk slightly as he tried not to let his shallow breathing take over.

“That was prior to what I just witnessed.” Turning to Ron and Hermione now, Healer Benson gave them a reassuring nod before speaking. “Would you both mind giving us a moment?”

Ron nodded and turned to leave but Hermione hesitated, eyes darting quickly between the healer and Harry. Clearly the urge to speak was too great and felt a pang of familiarity; he might hate being here, but Hermione’s consistency tugged at something warm deep inside him.

“Excuse me, Healer Benson, could I have a word with you first?”

“Concerning the patient, Miss…?”

“Hermione Granger, and yes. I’m Harry’s friend. We live together, so I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to tell you a few key details.”

“I see.” Looking to Harry for confirmation, Healer Benson shot him a sympathetic smile at his clear discomfort. “Harry, do you feel you’ve left out anything of great importance?”

“Er…” Hesitant though he was to talk about his potential misuse of Wideye in the past month, Harry knew it would likely be painted in a better light coming from him. “Maybe?”

“Harry, you—”

Hermione quietened at Healer Benson’s raised hand, chewing on her bottom lip as she wrung her hands in what seemed to be an effort to distract herself from telling the healer what she knew.

“I am no stranger to the effects of certain stimulants, Miss Granger. Even the most basic vital spells have shown that Harry has taken multiple in excess as of late. That being said, my concern lies more in the motive behind his actions than the damage he has done at this stage.”

Harry could see that it was taking every ounce of restraint for Hermione not to butt in as she shifted awkwardly in the corner of the room. Ron stood next to her, expression somewhere between amused and scared—whether due to his proximity to Hermione or what he was hearing from Healer Benson, Harry couldn’t say—as he watched the conversation silently.

“Our bodies are sturdy things, Miss Granger, despite how fragile they sometimes appear. A few weeks of misuse will not have impacted your friend’s heart beyond the point of no repair, indeed in the case of most wizards his age it should only take a few days to bounce back to normal levels of function.”

“Oh.” Hermione’s brow furrowed and Harry could practically hear her thinking from across the room. “But the books…”

Healer Benson smiled in her direction with a small nod. “I presume you read Jezos?” At Hermione’s affirmative, she continued. “Well-informed man with a slight flair for the dramatic, I’m afraid. While the short term side effects and potential long term damage are nothing to turn your nose up at,” turning her head to Harry now, Healer Benson fixed him with a pointed stare. “There is much to be said for our body’s want to survive. I highly advise against taking any more stimulants, Harry.”

Taking every ounce of courage not to cower at the obvious disappointment behind her reprimand, Harry schooled his features into a wide smile as he nodded. “Right, no more Wideye. I can do that. Is that all?”

Making a note on his patient file, Healer Benson shook her head. “You may need to stay a few days for observations, I’m afraid.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a big deal?” Confused, Harry looked to his friends to see if they were making more sense of this than he was. 

Ron shrugged at him, shifting from side to side before clearing his throat. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea, mate. I didn’t realise you were, um. Y’know. The Wideye stuff.” He looked down at the floor before mumbling, almost to himself. “Mum says that’s dangerous.”

Meekly, Harry returned the shrug. “I didn’t know until today. But yeah, er… Would you mind not telling her?”

Letting out a nervous chuckle, Ron gave him a thumbs up. “Blimey, Harry. You don’t really think I’d be daft enough to worry her on purpose?”

Harry gave a smile he hoped was more convincing than it felt. The last thing he needed right now was a distraught Molly Weasley, fretting over his wellbeing while mourning the loss of her son. He felt bad enough that Ron was here having to take on his troubles.

A silence filled the room, amplifying the racing of Harry’s heartbeat. He didn’t want to stay in St Mungo’s. Undoubtedly he’d be expected to actually sleep at some point and from the sounds of it, the perceived promise of Dreamless Sleep he’d come here hoping for was entirely off the table, meaning he would inevitably fall victim to the nightmares once more. It was bad enough having Hermione hear them whenever he allowed himself more than a moment of rest; the thought of everyone in the vicinity of his ward being aware of his darkest moments was one that he didn’t even want to consider.

Unable to suppress the groan he let out as a sudden stab to the chest had him doubling over, Harry looked up to see if it had managed to go unnoticed. There was a sharp intake of breath as he realised the world was tilting on its axis. He blinked and suddenly noticed that there was an unmistakable fifth person in the room. How had he missed them entering? The panicked thoughts amped up another level at this lack of observation until the room began to right itself and he froze, realising what he was seeing once again. 

Whether everyone else in the room knew Voldemort was there or not, Harry couldn’t be sure. All he was aware of was the pounding in his ears and the constricted flow of air in his windpipe before the room started to go black and his senses were overcome with fear.

“ _Enervate_ ,” he heard distantly as his body was jolted upright.

A sensation not unlike the feeling of Wideye coursing through his veins came over him and he blinked rapidly for a few moments, taking in the panicked looks on his friends’ faces and the contemplative focus of Healer Benson as she held her wand in his direction. They were the only ones in the room.

“We’ll need to discuss this alone, if you both don’t mind.” As Hermione went to interject, Healer Benson held her hand out for silence once more before continuing. “I suspect that you may be correct, Miss Granger. Perhaps Harry wasn’t entirely upfront with Nurse Weilin. I also suspect that he’ll be more open to discussion without company.”

She ushered them both out of the room promptly before anything more could be said on the matter, ignoring all of Hermione’s protests and Ron’s face as he tried to send Harry what was likely meant to be a reassuring look but instead looked like he was about to vomit slugs again. Drawing her wand, Healer Benson tapped on the door a few times to ensure it remained closed before turning back to face Harry.

“Alright. Let’s look at those diagnostics again, shall we?”

“Er…” Was all Harry managed before the rainbow appeared above him once more and resumed its intricate movement patterns. Again, his eyes were drawn to the tight gold tangle and he realised with a sinking feeling in his chest where he had seen such unforgiving golden colours before: in most of Voldemort’s horcruxes. A shiver ran down his spine as he tried to tear his gaze away but the slowly moving pulsation of the colour captivated him entirely.

Murmuring to herself in the background for a while as she drew out individual colours to inspect, Harry barely noticed Healer Benson until she addressed him again.

“Well, nothing seems more out of place than to be expected at this stage.”

Harry’s eyes found hers as he gave a tentative smile. “That’s good then, right?”

“It would be if it offered any explanation for what happened earlier.” She paused, pulling a purple thread out for closer inspection. “Interesting…”

It looked no different to many of the other colours to Harry—he was pointedly avoiding making eye contact with the gold for comparison—but he wasn’t the trained Healer who presumably knew what each colour signified. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but he didn’t want to draw attention to any possible problems by asking questions, so instead he waited.

“Very interesting.” Letting the thread resume its entanglement, Healer Benson looked to him expectantly. “Can you tell me what you think the problem might be, Harry?”

His mind blanked as he tried to think of any answer other than Voldemort occupying their room. “With the colours, you mean?”

Healer Benson raised an eyebrow at him. “With your health is what I was referring to. Do you understand the colours?”

“Er, no.” He shook his head as she gave an amused smile. “I don’t.”

“Well then. What do you think the problem with your health is right now?”

“Too much Wideye?” 

“Aside from the obvious, if you don’t mind. What do you think is perhaps causing you to take so much of it?”

He felt the hair on his neck stand up as flashes of dimly lit scenes flashed through his mind. A table, a graveyard, a door, a veil, a flash of green light, a white station with the promise of something more.

Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to chase the images out of his mind, Harry sighed. “I, er. It’s not really something you can help me with, I think.”

Healer Benson offered a challenging smirk that seemed less suited to her soft features and more suited to… Well. Someone more pointy. “Try me, Harry. I think you may be surprised.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just a bad dream.”

“Mm. From what I observed, you saw something in this room that scared you. Do you think the surge in your magic had anything to do with the hallucination?”

Her bluntness was what stopped the lie on Harry’s lips. Faltering, he instead looked down at his hands where they rested in his lap and took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. I didn’t feel the magic happening.”

“I see. I’ll assume they were related then, for now.”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “It doesn’t… They don’t matter. It doesn’t matter.”

Her voice was kind as she spoke this time, less authoritative. “It doesn’t take a trained Legilimens to have a good idea of who might be plaguing your thoughts, Harry. I don’t think this is something of too much concern, though I’m sure it feels like it at this point.” Healer Benson adjusted the web of colours above him slightly before meeting his eyes. “You’ve been taking a lot of Wideye and putting pressure on your body that isn’t natural, which is enough to cause some disruption in your mind. Hallucinations aren’t overly common this soon, but they’re also not unheard of. A few days off the stimulants and good rest will put an end to it, I’m almost certain.”

Harry swallowed nervously as he thought about the Horcrux and debated telling her for a moment. It would be such a weight off his chest. He thought about his worries, fears, the deepest thoughts he didn’t even want to share with Ron and Hermione. What if there was still an attachment to Voldemort? Though Harry and so many others had seen him meet his end, majority of his nightmares featured glimpses of the torture and horrors he’d subjected others to throughout the war. Moments Harry couldn’t be sure he had witnessed prior to the dreams that kept his staving off sleep as long as possible.

He’d already run the scenarios through his mind; Hermione would panic before immediately doing all the research she could, Ministry work be damned, while Ron would grimace and remind them both halfheartedly that “You-Know-Who can’t really be alive… Can he?” 

No. It was better this way, he reasoned. They were already worried enough about his health. Nobody needed to know about Dumbledore’s parting gift, or what really happened in the forest that night.

“Glad to hear it,” he said as he pasted a smile on his face. “I’m not looking forward to sleeping, but I guess if that’ll fix it…”

Patiently waiting in hope that Healer Benson would buy it, Harry pulled a sheepish look in her direction. She sighed and gave what could almost be considered a laugh before dismissing his vitals with a wave of her hand.

“I won’t be writing you up for any Dreamless Sleep, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“Oh.” Grumbling at her as he cheered inwardly at how quickly she’d glossed over his hesitation to talk, Harry slumped his shoulders and gave a sad nod. “I mean, I get it…”

“Listen to me,” Healer Benson began, speaking gently still as she perched on the end of his bed. “It’s a very rare occurrence that magic will just flare up when triggered by nightmares at your age. We don’t usually see this beyond age fifteen and no, I’m not comparing you to a child when I say that.” She shot him a look as if she could hear the defiant response in his mind at her comment, before continuing. “My best guess at this point is that either you’re more deeply effected by whatever you’re keeping from me… Or there’s dark magic at play. We’ve run all the diagnostics that could apply, considering that you haven’t fallen victim to any curses that anyone is aware of. Sometimes we miss things. I would rather not let you leave until we get further into this, but you don’t want that and with nothing visibly wrong outside of your stimulant use I’ve got little authority to keep you.”

At her pause, Harry nodded slowly. “So… I can leave?”

Healer Benson let out a sigh coupled with an almost-fond smile. “Like I said, I can’t keep you. But Harry, I must stress the importance of coming back if this happens again. If you experience outbursts of magical energy like before or anything else out of the ordinary, you should come and see us at once.”

With that she stood and smoothed out the creases on the front of her Healer robes before gesturing to the door. “You are cleared to go.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, Healer Benson.” Harry stood and made to leave, being stopped by a gentle arm across his chest as he reached the door.

“One last thing. I can’t share confidential details with your friends, but I do suggest that you talk to them about what you’re going through.”

Harry grimaced. “They’ve got their own stuff going on. I don’t need to make it harder.”

Sighing, Healer Benson fixed Harry with a stern look. “Trust me when I say that leaning on your friends for support is not making their lives harder. What will make it harder in the long run is if you shut them out now, when you likely need them the most.”

“Mmm.” Unable to hold her knowing gaze, Harry made a show of taking his robe down from the hook by the door. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Harry.”

The tone in her voice had him meeting her eyes once more, chest tightening at what he saw.

“They care about you. They would want to know. From someone who’s seen too many families breakdown because they had no idea someone was suffering… Just consider it.”

He nodded, unable to trust his voice at that moment. Seemingly satisfied for now, Healer Benson spelled the door open and led the way into the corridor where Ron and Hermione waited, standing as soon as they saw Harry step through.

“Take care of this one please, both of you.” Healer Benson nodded to Ron and Hermione in turn before stepping aside to let Harry pass. “Make sure he gets some sleep.”

Ron moved to clap Harry on the back, leaving Harry feeling like he almost dislodged some organs in the process. Hermione stayed firmly put, arms crossing against her chest as she looked between the boys and Healer Benson.

“So, that’s it? You’re letting him go?”

“Yes, Miss Granger. He will be well taken care of under your watchful eye, I presume?”

Harry watched over Ron’s shoulder as Hermione’s jaw set in a firm line as her nostrils flared. “He will, but that’s hardly the point. You saw what happened in there. He’s clearly—”

Seeing the attention she was drawing around them as nearby healers and visitors looked their way, Hermione closed the difference across the hall and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He’s clearly unwell. This seems hugely unprofessional and I demand that either you get him the help he needs or you point us towards a second opinion immediately.”

The ire dripping from her voice sent chills across Harry’s back and he was thankful not to be entirely on the receiving end of it this time. He felt Ron shift beside him, clearly uncomfortable with the tension around them but also not willing to face Hermione’s wrath if he tried to calm her right now.

Healer Benson sighed before giving a small nod. “To be perfectly frank, I would keep him if I could. However he will be more comfortable in his own home and that’s what appears to be most important at this stage. I cannot find anything physically causing the magical outbursts and until there is evidence of ailment, we cannot keep him without his consent.”

Hermione turned her fierce gaze to Harry momentarily at that as she realised he had asked to be released rather than stay for observation. He watched her throat move as she swallowed and cowered slightly, knowing he was in for some aggressive opinions when they made it back to Grimmauld.

“Have you perhaps considered that his outbursts are connected to his emotions?”

“That is precisely what I think is happening here, Miss Granger.”

To her credit, Hermione only took a minute to recover from the slight shock at being agreed with. “Well then, send him to someone to sort his emotions out.”

“We don’t really do that here, I’m afraid.”

The tension in the air was thick enough to be sliced cleanly with a _Diffindo_ and Harry gulped before taking a nervous step backwards, noticing Ron do the same beside him.

“You don’t do that here?”

Pursing her lips, Healer Benson nodded her acknowledgement. “Yes, Miss Granger.”

“…You seriously don’t do that here.” Her tone was cold, syllables even, and somehow that made it all the more terrifying.

“Miss Granger, I understand your frustration.. Unfortunately there isn’t a whole lot I can do at this stage.”

Hermione let out a sharp laugh causing both Harry and Ron to flinch, having heard it many a time before. This was the _Oh really? You’ve left your revision until the night before exams and expect my help?_ laugh, but infinitely scarier because they weren’t entirely sure what was about to follow. She placed her hands on her hips and squared up, jutting out her chin defiantly.

“Just making sure I understand what you’re saying, Healer Benson. You, St Mungo’s, an institution designed to aid witches and wizards experiencing health issues, don’t actually have the resources to help Harry right now? While he, a wizard, is experiencing health issues? Is that what you’re saying? That you… Simply don’t do that here?”

Harry had to give it to her, Healer Benson barely faltered as she took in Hermione’s seething disgust. With a subtle flick of her wrist a pamphlet made its way to Hermione, who managed to grab it in one hand before it smacked into her chest. He watched as she took one look at the cover and seemed to deflate as her eyes widened, before she gave a curt nod to Healer Benson and grimaced.

“It’s not funded, is it.” It was not a question, and Healer Benson didn’t seem to take it as such.

Raising her eyebrow almost imperceptibly, Healer Benson shook her head. “You were expecting anything different?”

“No, I just—” Hermione sighed, brushing her spare hand through her messy locks. “The Ministry’s a right piece of work sometimes, that’s all.”

Healer Benson gave a soft laugh. “Yes, well. People with far more power and influence than me make the decisions, I’m afraid. That being said, it’s a start. I daresay it’d do Harry some good.”

“Er, excuse me.” Sharing a look with Ron, Harry was glad to know he wasn’t the only one completely lost. “What would do me good?”

“I’ll tell you more about it when we get home,” Hermione said as she slipped the pamphlet into her beaded bag. “I might even bring it up in our Ministry meetings tomorrow, if anyone with their head screwed on is around.”

Ron gave Harry a nervous smile and shrugged, clearly glad that the air around them was moving freer now. He stepped forward to embrace Hermione and mouthed an apology at Harry over her shoulder before gesturing towards the floo exits. “I’ll let you deal with that, then. I’m headed home. Don’t forget lunch tomorrow!”

His last words were shouted as he turned to leave, filling Harry with a sense of overwhelming despair once more as he realised he couldn’t avoid Ginny forever. Hermione’s all too observant nature seemed to know exactly where his thoughts were and she stepped closer, squeezing one of his hands with hers.

“Still hungry? We could stop on the way back.”

“Honestly, ‘Mione. After the day we’ve had…”

He saw her jaw clench as she let out a deep sigh before glaring in his direction. “I will let you have Kreacher cook only because you’re going to tell him he’s not allowed to give you Wideye under any circumstance, or to continue cleaning up after you.”

Sensing an opportunity to leave before things heated up, Healer Benson pointedly cleared her throat before wishing them both the best and encouraging Harry to come back at any point, should he feel the need. Harry wished she would stay as a pacifier but didn’t blame her for taking off and thanked her for her time. Turning back to Hermione, he winced as he saw the grim look on her face had only darkened during his momentary reprieve.

“Er… We could skip telling that to Kreacher? Stop on the way home? The Indian place?”

“I honestly don’t know why I bother,” she muttered as she turned on her heels and stalked off towards the apparition point outside the hospital.

Shoving both hands into his pockets, Harry mustered up what little energy he had left to follow her and hoped that any discussions could wait until tomorrow. Nightmares be damned, right now he would be the first to admit that he needed to rest before losing the ability to function entirely.

* * *

Harry hated pacing. He hated watching it happen, hated hearing it happen and most of all, hated doing it himself. But he couldn’t sit still for longer than a few seconds before his temper got the best of him, so it was best to pace right now.

Dinner had been a terse affair with Hermione first ordering Harry to set new boundaries with Kreacher while she was present before they enjoyed lamb stew in silence, save asking one another to pass the salt. It had been close to 11 o’clock by the time they’d made it home for the night so he hoped his attempt at feigning exhaustion had worked as he excused himself for bed shortly after dinner, though he doubted Hermione had truly bought it. She’d at first given him a distracted nod from the couch where she was pursuing the material she’d been given from Healer Benson, but called out after him as he made it to the bottom stair. Harry had paused and turned back as she expressed concern and instructed him to under no circumstances try keep himself awake, and to let her know if anything seemed worrying. Avoiding her eyes he’d simply nodded and said his goodnight before making his way upstairs and casting the strongest silencing charm on his bedroom door he could muster.

That didn’t mean he wanted to sleep. The magical flare up earlier had him worried that perhaps another nightmare would be enough to break through the silencing charm and the last thing he needed tonight was another trip to St Mungo’s. The only upside he could see to an overnight stay was that they’d surely get frustrated with his screaming after a while and let him have some Dreamless Sleep, right? It was a low selling point in comparison to having to speak about the hallucinations and his ever-growing loss of control.

He swore as he considered this. Why couldn’t things ever just be normal for him? When he left the house this morning he hadn’t intended on ending up in St Mungo’s. He certainly hadn’t intended to get put on a strict no stimulant order without a solution to his nightmare situation.

Then again, he hadn’t intended on wearing down a path in his bedroom carpet either. Yet here he was.

This was ridiculous. He needed sleep—there were more events tomorrow, of course there were—and yet all he could think about was how detached he felt from his life right now. Flickers of the past few weeks flew by in his mind but that was all he could grasp; he felt like he was watching a montage of someone else’s life and he was intruding by knowing the few details that he did. Even this anger he felt right now seemed borrowed. And that enraged him even more.

His footsteps reached the door again and as he swivelled he glimpsed the time on the grandfather clock in the corner. He knew it was late. It hadn’t seemed like it was 2 o’clock when he’d finally given in to his emotions and peeled the covers back to walk back and forth like a caged animal past his four poster bed, but either he’d been walking a lot longer than he thought he had, or he had underestimated the amount of time he had spent laying in bed trying to ignore the feeling as it built.

Damn the war. Damn Voldemort, for starting it all. For ending his hopes of a normal life. For painting a target on his head. While he was at it… Damn Trelawney, damn Snape, damn Dumbledore; damn everyone who had been involved in the prophecy. Why him?! Yeah, sure, it had all worked out. He had won the war, right? The saviour. The bloody Chosen One. For what cause?

Harry knew he was spiralling. He knew this was a sign that he wasn’t okay. But he couldn’t stop: the emotions he had been holding back for so long refused to stay at bay now that he’d opened the floodgates. With a bittersweet sigh he blamed it on everyone asking him to open up about what he was experiencing earlier. Surely he hadn’t been so bad before everyone had tried to make him talk?

He couldn’t even imagine what a normal life would be like. He’d never had one, not really, and every time it had appeared like maybe, just maybe this time would be different, the people he cared about were ripped away from him again.

And now he was meant to be happy. He was supposed to be showing up day in and day out at the Ministry to boost public morale and remind the world that it was all over and he was sick of it. He felt like Scrimgeour was running the place again; he was being used as a puppet, and he didn’t even know who was pulling the strings. All Harry knew was that he was burning out really fast, and he wasn’t sure how long he had left before it was all too much.

This should have been better. This shouldn’t have been such a struggle for him, honestly. He had been fighting his whole damn life to beat the bad guy and now the battle was won… So why did he felt like his entire identity had died with Voldemort?

All the time he had spent preparing for war, learning about his past, knowing what was expected of him: it had never really left much time for planning a happy future. He’d always expected to die, deep down. He hadn’t wanted to—nobody ever really wants to, do they?—but it hadn’t come as a huge shock when Dumbledore’s gift had started to make sense. To be here today, alive, with no terrifying battle in the foreseeable future should have been a welcomed change but instead he felt empty inside.

Harry let out a sigh which quickly became a yawn and he gave in to it, finally making his way back to where the undersheets were exposed and collapsing once again into his bed. As he pulled the covers back over himself he felt the rage begin to boil under the surface once more—apparently unhappy with his lack of movement that had been keeping it at bay—but refused to do anything more than sleep at this point. He pressed his face into the pillow to muffle a groan as he thought about his early start tomorrow; inevitably Hermione would yet again know that he was up most of the night despite spending the evening in St Mungo’s and lecture him about the importance of proper sleep hygiene.

It was nothing he wasn’t already painfully aware of. He just didn’t know how to tell her that sleep wasn’t on his side these days, any more than it had been back in fifth year with the dreams.

She had heard the nightmares. She should know that he wasn’t going to let himself sleep more than strictly necessary. It was exasperating, honestly, just how much his subconscious seemed determined to make him miserable. What was the point of celebrating the win if it didn’t really feel like a win at all?

He was the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and though he doubted the Prophet would ever let anyone forget who he was, he didn’t know how to move forward from here. He hadn’t the faintest idea what he actually wanted to do now that he had the choice. He wasn’t sure how much choice he really had, not having completed any of his seventh schooling year, but the fact was that now he had all the time in the world, and no clue how to spend it. He felt lost. Hopeless, if he was being honest with himself. 

Rolling over onto his back Harry saw the moonlight casting shadows as it streamed in through the open curtains. What did he want to be? He had fantasised about having a family not so long ago. About being an Auror, and marrying Ginny and being one of the Weasleys and now… Well. He felt unprepared for any of that. Uninspired, even. But was that simply a general life feeling or his new thoughts on his old dream? He would have to address it all soon enough. There was only so much avoiding he could do when he spent so much time at both the Ministry and the Burrow.

Pressing his eyes shut tightly, he forced all of his muscles to clench and then relaxed them slowly, one at a time. Without even realising he had moved to touch it, he lifted his hand away from where it had ended up on his scar; though he wasn’t bothered by pains in his forehead anymore, it still seemed to be a reflex whenever things became too much to handle. Harry couldn’t remember the last night he had spent where things hadn’t overwhelmed him and he had given up wondering when it would finally come.

He tried his hardest not to resent Healer Benson for the lack of both Wideye and Dreamless Sleep to beat his feelings of exhaustion and reminded himself that he was lucky to be in his own bed, not laying in St Mungo’s right now as he stared at the ceiling. Perhaps sleep wouldn’t be so bad tonight. It was ironic in the worst kind of way that now he accepted the possibility of sleeping tonight, his body refused to actually comply. The split second nap he’d had earlier must have tricked his mind into thinking it would be a few more days before rest came again.

Sighing heavily Harry resigned himself to another night of tossing and turning and with that, pulling the blanket up over his face, he recited every phrase he could remember from _Hogwarts: A History_ before eventually, gradually, the world faded away into blackness. 

* * *

Waking as a tortured scream ripped its way out of his throat, Draco jolted upright on the hard stone floor. The flash of green light he’d just witnessed seemed to be branded inside his eyelids and he curled in on himself underneath the thin, ragged blankets with a heaving sob.

Despite his hair being plastered to his forehead and feeling drenched in his own sweat, Draco was freezing. He couldn’t stop shivering though every blanket he had was wrapped tightly around him to prevent any air getting in. There was next to no light coming in through the stone walls and even the gap in the ceiling above him wasn’t illuminated, so he presumed it was still some time in the middle of the night. 

Trying in vain to keep his teeth from chattering, he kept the covers up below his chin and tried to move his toes just to check that they were still receiving blood flow. Then he worked his way up slowly, into his feet, through his legs, up to his stomach and into his chest. He imagined that as he felt the blood pumping to keep him alive, it was warming him. This wasn’t entirely new for him, he was just adapting the process he had used for the last two years to keep himself from shooting an Unforgivable in his own direction. Instead of warmth, it had been safety. It had been a calm, secluded place he could be alone inside of his body when his mind became too much.

Unfortunately, like that practice, this seemed to require a lot more focus than he could command in his current state. He sighed, pulled the blanket up higher and tighter and forced himself to slow his breathing - not too slow that he would speed up the possibility of dying right now, just enough so that his breaths were no longer shallow and he was actually getting enough oxygen into his system.

He squeezed his eyes closed and imagined the fireplace in his room back at the Manor. No, that wouldn’t do. Too much had happened in that room and he… Well, that just wasn’t going to keep him warm right now.

Keeping them closed, Draco relaxed his eyes slightly to take the pressure off and try alleviate the tears that were threatening to flow.

_Okay, Draco. You can do this._

He thought instead to the roaring fire in the Slytherin common rooms. The times he had spent there unafraid before the Dark Lord’s return. Before the pride in his family name had died out. Back when he could use his status and power to command followers and ensnare friends. How simple it had all seemed.

Draco took a deep breath and started once more to feel the warmth in his toes. This time, he imagined he was putting his toes out towards the fire and letting it slowly heat them, the heat then spreading to his feet, his legs, his stomach, his chest. He could almost feel the flicker of the flames as his face started to warm and he thought of stretching his hands out to the fireplace, palms warming as the echoing voices of his housemates filled his ears. Soaking in the warm memory, Draco felt almost like he could manage this. The place might reek of misery and despair but without the Dementors here, he could hold onto thoughts of a better time without the constant fear of having them taken from him.

What constituted a better time, he wondered? He lay there reminiscing on easier days when he was young and naive, determined to rule the world in the same way he’d always thought his father had. The lust and pull he’d felt to his childhood of late seemed to dull with every deeper inspection of the truth. Draco’s thoughts were being coloured anew and he wasn’t entirely certain he liked this process.

Perhaps his thoughts had always been skewed towards the wrong side, though he couldn’t say for sure which was wrong anymore. The beliefs he’d clung to so tightly in his early days might be problematic if he delved deep but it had been so much less effort and headache to be programmed that way. Ignorance truly was bliss, he could see that so clearly now.

Did he owe this crisis of moral conscience to the Dark Lord? If the fear hadn’t followed him around his own home for so long, would he have ever questioned his allegiance and what they were all fighting for? Considering the amount of time and energy he devoted to hiding his thoughts from someone he had followed so easily at one time, had he been questioning the plans all along? Had he ever truly stood for anything? Or had his father and in turn the Dark Lord just scared the shit out of him?

He curled in on himself once more, the fire within his veins dulling as a stray tear rolled out of his right eye and found its way to the cold floor. How he longed for a confidante. Someone to discuss this with, like he had with his fellow Slytherins so many times before everything had headed South in sixth year. Draco tried and failed not to think about how much he wanted his mother right now. She may have been blinded, perhaps simply biased, but she had always been good at imparting words of wisdom and making Draco feel loved. He tried not to think too deeply into what she’d allowed to happen under their roof and instead focused on the younger years, time spent wandering the Manor gardens and halls together as he grew up.

Head and heart full of love and longing, Draco did his best to ignore the tainted vines threatening to wind their way inside his happy childhood sanctuary. His body settled slowly as the shaking ceased, breathing finally evening out as he drifted off to sleep once more.


	4. Solitary

The first time it happened Harry thought he was having a heart attack.

His initial thought had been one of panic, followed by confusion: could wizards even get heart attacks? Harry was yet to hear about someone dying from anything other than old age or magical reasons. He supposed he could ask Hermione but he didn’t want to worry her and she would no doubt send him back to St Mungos if heart attacks were a viable cause of death in the magical world.

He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. The thought of actually having something physically wrong was stressing him out and Harry didn’t think that would help him avoid the problem. He sat and tried to focus on happy memories because he didn’t really know what else to do. After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably only a few moments the pain seemed to ease to a dull ache and he breathed a sigh of relief.

It happened again a few days later, when Harry was on the phone with the Indian takeout place down the street. He stopped mid sentence and clenched his eyes closed, trying not to keel over.

“Hello? Hello?” Came the voice from the receiver.

Taking a deep breath Harry steeled himself, opening his eyes. “Sorry, yeah. Er.” He paused. “Where was I?”

“Butter chicken medium, palak paneer mild, two garlic naan and samosas. Did you want anything else?”

He shook his head, then remembered the man couldn’t see him. “No, that’s all. I’ll come down to the door and get it when it’s ready.”

“Twenty minutes! Thank you, good bye!”

After hearing the disconnect tone Harry placed the phone back on the receiver. He was worried, that was for sure, but figured he would give it another five minutes before telling anybody that he was worried he was dying. Harry walked over to the sofa across the room and took a seat, hoping to ride it out.

By the time his dinner had arrived, the pain had faded once more. Confused but glad for the relief, Harry pushed any lingering questions in his mind aside and accepted his plastic bag full of delicacies from the harried delivery driver before retreating inside once again.

The next time followed quickly after: he was eating his dinner with Hermione at the dining table. Harry gasped suddenly and clutched his chest before he could think and Hermione turned to him, concerned.

“What’s wrong? Do you hurt?”

Harry grimaced, resenting himself for his fast reaction. “It’s fine, really. Just a chest pain.”

“It doesn’t look fine. Did you do something to hurt it?”

“Yes, Hermione.” He sighed. “Eating my dinner is a really strenuous activity.”

“This isn’t funny! It could be really serious. We should get you checked out.”

Harry shook his head determinedly. “No. I’ll be alright. It went away pretty quick last time.”

Hermione furrowed her brow, suspicious look crossing her face. “Just how many times has this happened, exactly?”

“Um.” He kicked himself inwardly. “Just once before. A few days ago. It’s nothing, really—”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

He sighed. “I did. I just didn’t want to worry you.”

She looked at him disapprovingly and with a slight hint of what appeared to be pity. “Harry, you know I would want to know.” Her voice was gentle and he could tell she was starting to worry about him.

“Sorry, Hermione. I’ll tell you next time.”

“I don’t want to wait for next time. Can we take you to see someone?”

“It’s fine, really.” It was a lie—he was still in agonising pain—but Harry really didn’t want to leave the house. “It’s pretty much gone now.”

“You know, this could be because of all the Wideye you were taking.”

Harry groaned. “Honestly, it’s nothing. And I’m sure it’s nothing to do with that. Can we just forget it?”

She raised an eyebrow but chose to humour him. “Fine. Next time though, we’re getting you checked out at St Mungo’s again.”

He panicked internally but kept a straight face. “I suppose we can. If it happens again.”

“Good,” came her reply, with a look on her face that he knew meant he wasn’t getting out of this agreement.

He was brushing his teeth later that night when the pain struck him again. Harry knew he couldn’t ignore this much longer, with the amount of anxiety and fear that rose in his mind each time he felt the stabbing feeling in his chest. Bracing himself with both hands on the sink in front of him, Harry raised his eyes to look at his reflection in the mirror. His pupils were dilated and where his toothbrush stuck out of his lips pressed tightly together he could see some foam residue from the toothpaste. Trying to focus on the image looking back at him instead of the pain that was eating him from the inside out, his eyes followed the line of stubble-bordering-on-scruffy-beard along his clenched jawline down to his shoulders that were rising and falling far too quickly as he hyperventilated.

Suddenly an idea came to him. Harry removed his toothbrush from his mouth and finished rinsing out the foaming paste. Standing up straight and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he took a few slow breaths to prepare himself.

“Kreacher?” He half-whispered to the empty bathroom.

With a deafening crack in the small space, his house elf materialised in the doorway.

“Master is calling for Kreacher?”

“Um, yeah. Do you know anything about chest pain?”

Kreacher stood straighter, if such a thing were even possible. “Master is ill! Master must be going to St Mungos now!”

Raising his hands as if approaching a wild Hippogriff, Harry quickly spoke. “No, no! I’m just… wondering.” He finished lamely and hoped Kreacher would believe him.

“Master Harry does not usually ask Kreacher when he worries. Does Master Harry want Kreacher to find information for him?”

“Um, could you—could you just tell me if wizards can have heart attacks? Like muggles can?”

The elf raised an eyebrow and with a snap of his long, wrinkled fingers he disappeared. Harry heard a muted crack from elsewhere in the house and wondered if there was a book on wizarding illnesses in the Noble House of Black. He supposed it made sense and he should have just looked for himself first before involving Kreacher.

Giving himself another once-over in the mirror, Harry turned and walked back into his bedroom and sat on the edge of his four poster bed while he waited. After another minute or so, another loud noise announced Kreacher’s return.

“The Muggle-born is telling Kreacher that Master Harry does not need worry about heart attack. The Muggle-born is not looking very happy with Master Harry.”

Harry gulped. “I, er, might have told her I would tell her if it happened. I didn’t know you were going to ask her.”

“The Muggle-born was in the library and asked Kreacher why he was being here so late instead of at Hogwarts like Kreacher is meant to be when Master doesn’t need food. Kreacher is not knowing he isn’t telling Muggle-born about Master. Master told Kreacher to talk to the Muggle-born girl more after he got home from St Mungo’s last week.”

Groaning as he lay back on the unmade bed, Harry pressed both fists to his eyes. “She’s going to kill me,” he mumbled into his hands. “Kreacher, she’s going to kill me.”

“Master seems to be overreacting,” Kreacher muttered. “Does Master require anything else from Kreacher?”

“No, thanks Kreacher.” Harry waved a hand in the elf’s direction as he heard the familiar crack signalling his departure.

He lay there waiting for the telltale sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, hoping that Hermione would be too caught up in preparation for tomorrow to come and mother him immediately. There was a big legislation push, he knew that much, and Hermione had somehow slotted herself right in the middle of negotiations.

Harry had no idea how she did it.

It had been barely a month since their crazy year on the run had come to an end, yet Hermione was already filling in some of the gaps at the Ministry and helping to negotiate new laws, all the while attending most of the Death Eater trials—some as a witness, some as a scribe—and still coming home at the end of every day questioning whether they would let her take her NEWTs over Summer, or if she should try and do seventh year again via correspondence.

Being central to Voldemort’s defeat had done a lot for all of them as far as connections were concerned; Harry resented this and wished everyone would just leave him be, but Hermione had pounced on the opportunities presented with as much dedication as only she could possess. Hermione had taken it upon herself to challenge a lot of the legislation that had been changed during the past few years and as she did so she was trying to advance older laws that many might be more partial to questioning now that Voldemort’s motives were laid bare for all to see.

It was overwhelming, if Harry was being perfectly honest with himself. Ron as well; they were both obviously proud of her but this was something else, even by Hermione standards. Ron was confused, trying to figure out where to go from here and in general just mourning the losses his family had felt while trying to hold everything together, while Harry felt like he didn’t know who he was anymore. He also still felt horribly responsible for every single death that had come about in the last sixteen years and it was a huge burden to bear.

And then there was Ginny.

They were giving each other space right now. He chalked it up to Fred’s death and all the injuries her brothers had received, but deep down Harry didn’t even know if his heart was in it anymore. He wanted it to be. He wanted it so bad. There were so few times throughout his life that Harry had felt calm and at peace; when he had been with Ginny it seemed like maybe there was something worth fighting for on the other side. But now that he was faced with the reality of the win, well…

Something was missing. And he knew that something was him.

His few minutes of pondering seemed to be all the time Hermione had needed to pause her research long enough to come and yell at him. Harry managed to convince her not to drag him to St. Mungo’s then and there but he should have known better than to think he’d left the conversation with the upper hand.

“Oh, and Harry?” Came the suspiciously nonchalant call from her retreating figure. “Clear tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got plans.”

“We do?”

“I’ll be at the Ministry until 3 o’clock. Meet me in the Atrium, don’t be late.”

With a sigh he lay back on his bed once more and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Was it too much to ask for one day that vaguely resembled normalcy? Despite pushing three days without sleep at this point Harry felt sick at the thought of succumbing to his exhaustion; Hermione had finally stopped checking at his door each night or giving him more than a casual glance when he did give in to his nighttime wanderings and he suspected the visit to St. Mungo’s last week was to thank for that. It hadn’t put an end to the nightmares or his aversion to closing his eyes for more than the time it took to blink. Instead it had simply made him fight harder against the needs of his body and when he wasn’t in a perpetual state of exhaustion he was channeling all of his energy into grieving the life he had never known.

It didn’t take long before grief gave way to seething rage and all he could see was red.

He had given up on trying to pinpoint the exact moment the rage had come over him because it hadn’t felt like it was entirely his rage; it felt like when Voldemort used to feel strong emotions and he would feel their shadow, except the feeling was amplified exponentially. The implications of this were less than desirable to say the least. Thinking about the possibility that someone was possessing him or worse, part of Voldemort was still inhabiting his body was not something he had intended on spending his nights doing.

This was easier, he reasoned, as he turned back to what he had always known. Harry thought it had died with Voldemort. Instead it seemed like Voldemort had diluted it; now with every breath he could feel it building inside him and that chest pain was back, his throat was closing and though part of him was screaming to push down the pain and reject the rage that voice was being drowned out by the ringing in his ears and what felt like his entire body convulsing.

Harry wasn’t okay. Maybe that thought should have scared him more than it did but instead it felt like a confirmation of who he’d always suspected himself to be deep down. The freak who’d been locked away. The boy marked for death before he’d been allowed to live. There was pain in these thoughts but there was also a familiar comfort and he pressed his eyes shut tightly as he vaguely registered the distant sound of objects breaking, something crashing to the floor. Nails dug deep into the palms of his hands as suddenly the room fell silent, moments before his world went black.

* * *

“Well, that went better than expected.”

Harry grumbled, quickening his pace to keep up with Hermione a few steps ahead of him. “That was the worst hour of my life.”

“Yes, well.” She shot him a glance over her shoulder that he could only interpret as _what did you expect_? “It left a lot to be desired, and I don’t think a long term stay will actually do you much good.”

“…You don’t?”

With a snort, Hermione shook her head. “The way some of the staff there fawned over you was, quite frankly, incredibly unprofessional and off-putting to say the least. It has made me realise the wizarding world severely lacks the support it needs particularly considering what we’ve just been through in recent years.”

“So you’re not shipping me off to therapy?” Harry let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, feeling infinitely lighter than he had since he’d first laid eyes on _Melodic Mental Miracles_. “That’s a bloody relief.”

“Believe me Harry, if there were any alternatives, I would. For now, I’m going back to researching muggle methods of dealing with trauma.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of that but chose not to push the subject, knowing when to take the win. He put the horribly cheesy positivity posters and harshly lit rooms of the psychological rehab facility out of his mind and instead focused on the warm air around them. It was a rare sunny day and Harry had to acknowledge that perhaps being outside wasn’t the worst thing for him right now; Hermione may have been on to something when she insisted that they walk back to the Ministry.

“Y’know…” He started, stepping into place beside Hermione where she waited at the pedestrian crossing. “Healer Benson said I should talk to someone about my problems.”

Hermione turned to face him, eyebrows raising at the freely offered information. “Did she?”

“Mmm. I don’t think I’d feel comfortable talking to any of those Mind Healers though. They all knew too much about me, it was a bit creepy.”

“I don’t think we actually met the Mind Healers, but you make a good point.”

“I do?”

Stepping out into the street as the lights changed, Hermione nodded. “It would probably be easier for you to do something anonymous. I’ll have a think on it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Harry, I am getting you help whether you like it or not. Let me do things my way and research all the options out there, otherwise I am admitting you to _Melodic Miracles_ for your own good.”

Gulping beside her, Harry gave a short nod. “Got it. Do your thing, ‘Mione.”

They walked alongside each other in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, Harry taking the time to truly appreciate the summer’s day. Hermione shot him a few smug looks as they walked as if she knew what he was feeling and he couldn’t help the grin that broke out across his face. Screw therapy. Maybe he’d just go for walks in the sun instead.

* * *

It had been almost a week since the visit to _Melodic Mental Miracles_ and Harry was finally sitting across from Ron at the Burrow, filling him in on the visit over some Butterbeers.

“They really bowed?” Ron asked, eyes wide with shock. “You must be joking, mate. That’s a nightmare.”

Harry nodded, grimacing at the memory. “One of them, yeah. Another kissed my bloody hand. It was awful.”

The laughter that followed was loud enough to have woken the entire house, tears streaming down Ron’s face as he howled. “Wish I’d been there to see that. The look on your face, I bet—”

Ron stopped talking abruptly as he caught sight of something behind Harry's shoulder, face becoming solemn. Turning slowly, his suspicions were confirmed as he saw Ginny standing in the doorway.

“Harry, can we talk?”

He had known this was coming—especially with him visiting Ron at the Burrow so often—but he had been hoping to avoid the conversation just a little longer.

Taking her in as she stood before him he noticed how weary she looked; the light he used to see in her eyes seemed dulled, understandable from everything that had happened the last few years.

Clearing his throat Harry looked back to Ron quickly, seeing him raise an eyebrow and tilt his chin towards the doorway she occupied.

“Yeah, sure Gin.”

Standing, he looked back to her and watched her turn on her heel and lead the way out into the garden. He followed hastily, almost tripping over his feet as he stepped out from the chair and gulped, trying to remind himself that everything was going to work out just fine. They didn’t have to make any big decisions today. He didn’t think either of them were really ready for that yet.

Making his way outside behind her, the cool air bit at his arms as he pulled his shirt sleeves back down as low as they would go over his hands, rubbing them together to generate a bit of heat without bothering to reach for his wand. The sun had set during his chat with Ron and not expecting to be outside, he had dressed lightly: a thin long-sleeved shirt and a worn pair of Dudley’s old jeans. Ginny was bundled up ahead of him, as to be expected after spending the day out flying. She didn’t seem to still be in her flying gear but she looked warm, which he was grateful for. As confusing as the situation might be, he’d hate to have a conversation that he’d been dreading while also worrying about her health.

She stopped when they got to the outer edges of the garden, close enough to the house to feel comforting but far enough away that prying eyes and curious ears wouldn’t trouble them. After casting a quick _muffliato_ Ginny spun quickly back around to face him, her hair following her gracefully and settling over one shoulder to hang across the side of her face. Brushing it back, she locked eyes with him and he saw it: though the pain and fighting of the recent past were evident, there was still that fire burning behind them and he almost flinched away, not knowing what to make of it. Harry brought a hand through his hair absentmindedly and pressed his lips together as he tried not to break the stare, knowing she needed this right now, possibly more than he did.

She held his gaze a moment longer then sighed and looked away, her shoulders lowering slightly.

“What’s going on, Harry?”

He felt another involuntary gulp coming as he tried to form the words in his mouth. Swallowing it down, Harry exhaled and dropped his gaze. “Er. A lot, I guess.” Lifting his eyes to her again he saw her brow furrow before quickly adding, “I’m sorry. I should have seen you sooner. It’s just… I’ve been busy, Gin.”

She looked back to him and nodded curtly. “Yeah, it seems that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t be serious.” She raised an eyebrow and upon realising that he didn’t have more to say, continued. “You keep making time to come here to see Ron! I know you’re at the Ministry a lot but I’m there too sometimes! It’s not hard to come see me, Harry. You just don’t want to.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t make excuses. Please. I waited around for you for years and then again when you left last year and I can’t do it again. Not if you don’t really want this.”

Running both hands through his hair this time he tilted his chin back to look up at the sky above them. Cloudy, of course. He hadn’t expected to end up here. Not tonight. Not like this. What happened to not having to make any big decisions tonight?

“I don’t know what I want.”

She sighed. “Look at me, Harry.”

He looked forward at her and was glad to see that at least for now, there were no tears in her eyes.

“You’re busy. I know. But you also don’t want to see me.”

“I do want to see you! I just didn’t know what to…” He trailed off, and he knew from the look in her eyes that she already knew what he was about to say.

“You say you don’t know what you want.”

He nodded, not sure he could trust his words right now.

“But you don’t know how to be around me. So you probably don’t want me, then.”

He paused a moment. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

She blinked quickly a few times and Harry could see that her eyes were starting to glisten. “Alright. Well, I’ve done my waiting Harry. I can’t do this anymore. You’re so different than you were and I don’t know if you’re going to get through this and be someone that I don’t recognise at all. You might never want me, and I can’t wait around to find out.”

The tears were flowing freely now and Harry moved forward to do something to comfort her but Ginny held up her hand as a way to keep him back. Pressing his lips together, Harry focused on breathing until she seemed ready to continue.

“It’s funny, I didn’t expect to care so much.” She left out a broken laugh as her shoulders shook before curling in on herself, arms wrapping around her torso. “These past weeks… Maybe even longer than that. It felt like maybe this wasn’t right for us anyway. Like I’d wanted you because I couldn’t have you and then you left, and I kept wanting this idea I had for our future together. I almost feel like we were just doing what everyone expected us to do. Does that make sense?”

Nodding slowly, Harry tried to find his voice as he felt the emotions start to well up in his chest. “Gin… I did love you, you know. I do.” His words were shaky but he saw the hurt in her eyes and knew he had to see the discomfort through to the end. For both of them. “But maybe you’re right. I think it was expected of us and now that there’s no more fighting… I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

The words were possibly the truest he’d spoken as of late, yet Harry hadn’t realised how much he felt that way until they were out of his mouth. Watching as Ginny tried to blink away the streams of tears, he felt his heart breaking as he reminded himself that this was the right choice for both of them. Ginny deserved better than a predetermined future, she deserved better than what Harry could ever give her. He just wished it didn’t have to feel like it was destroying them both in the process.

“I want to keep being friends, at least. But I don’t know if we can right now. It’s hard to see you and know you might not want this anymore, even though…”

“I get it.” He paused. “Do you… Should I maybe not come over to see Ron for a bit?”

She smiled sadly. “If you don’t mind. Just for a few weeks or so. I’ll be off to Hogwarts again soon.”

He nodded and shifted his weight awkwardly from side to side, unsure of what else to say. “Gin, I…”

“I know, Harry. Me too.”

And with that she started her walk back to the house, fingers gently brushing against his right arm as she passed him. He dropped his head back, looking to the sky as if hoping it would have all the answers he was seeking right now, but knowing that he wasn’t going to find them up there.

Harry waited until he couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore and decided to apparate back to Grimmauld Place. Ron would understand. He would no doubt be waiting for them both to come back inside and after seeing Ginny’s face, it was probably best to give the house a bit of space for the time being. Beginning his walk up the hill to get outside the wards, he noticed again how cold it was—had the night gotten even colder?—and quickened his pace, thinking of the fireplace waiting for him back at his home. Harry almost felt guilty having Kreacher cook most nights but he was secretly hoping that maybe the elf had noticed Harry’s lack of presence and would take matters into his own hands, assuming Hermione wasn’t home to tell him no.

Finally crossing the magical border surrounding The Burrow, Harry did a quick spin on his heels and felt the ever unwelcome feeling of being squished inside a space too small for his body before coughing as he felt himself reemerge on the front steps of Number 12.

* * *

It was a series of conflicting emotions that ran through Draco's body as he accepted his fate for the foreseeable future. He knew that Azkaban was a horrible place, one that he shouldn't be happy to be imprisoned in. 

He was in Azkaban, of all places. The wizarding prison. Somewhere reserved for criminals and as his father always put it, people stupid enough to get caught. He should feel ashamed, hopeless, resigned to a life of misery and despair. But all that aside, he actually felt quite calm for the first time in as long as he could remember. True, he was in a barren cell made of century-old concrete worn down by pacing and filled with the lingering presence of the dementors. But he wasn't under You-Know-Who's reign anymore. He didn't have to watch his back at every turn, even in his own manor. He didn't have to constantly deploy Occlumency shields at every waking moment in fear that the Dark Lord would hear his inner thoughts, fears and fruitless dreams of defecting to the other side. Not that he would have ever been able to desert his family and friends. He just wished he hadn't been stuck without a choice in the first place. So yes, it sucked that he was in prison for an indefinite period. But he felt so much less like his life was at risk and for now that was enough to make him almost grateful to the witches and wizards who had put him here. 

It was a miracle, really, how everything had turned out. He hadn't honestly expected to make it this far. If the war didn't kill him he was sure the Dark Lord would have. Or the angry mobs who wanted every Death Eater’s head on a stake after the losses their side had suffered. He understood completely. It was difficult to admit but by the end of it he was so incredibly hopeful that stupid Potter would make it happen. That he would defeat the Dark Lord and Draco wouldn't have to live under his thumb anymore. He daren't speak these thoughts to anyone, not even his mother, for he knew exactly how awful they were. He had been raised on the side of the pureblood army and it had been drilled into him from such a young age: anyone not of pure wizarding descent is inferior and must be treated as such, or disposed of. He believed it wholeheartedly. He lived, breathed, ate, drank, slept, woke, a servant of this belief. 

As he paced the well-worn stone floor beneath him he wondered when all of that had begun to change. It had happened so slowly he hadn't really realised just how differently his world view had become until after the war had ended. He knew that his faith was fading, for sure, but even his disgust and hatred of those different to him had changed. It hadn't disappeared altogether—that would take nothing short of a miracle—but he no longer felt the need to lord his high place in society or sneer at those of different parentage. In fact, he almost felt indifferent about it all. He had still ruled the schoolyard and looked down on others but his heart hadn’t been in it. The tighter he was wrapped in the Dark Lord’s web, the less energy he was able to spare for the things that had once seemed so important to him. Those long months, years even of having the Dark Lord breathing down his neck and commanding him to do tasks he was expected to fail at had sparked something within him which in turn had completely extinguished something else entirely. 

It was strange, really, how though he was absolutely certain he hadn't experienced half of what his brain was telling him had happened, it was so vivid and real to him. The memories weren't muddled or hazy at all; he could remember everything with absolute clarity. He just logically knew they were fake. His mind seemed tampered with, invaded. It felt like someone had gone in and messed with his memories, yet he didn't think anyone would either want to do that or be able to do it without him realising. He couldn't pinpoint the time that his recollection of the year spent at the Manor in fear had shifted in his mind's eye. The only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely uncertain about what had actually occurred. 

Draco remembered flashes that he knew were real. Obviously he wasn't going out of his way to recall those horrible long months filled with fear and tension. They just struck him when he was unsuspecting. A smell, sound, certain phrase that fell from the guard's mouths in their casual conversations through the halls; it didn't take a lot to suck the breath from his lungs and draw his mind into a dark place. The dreams hadn't stopped, not yet. He didn't truly think they ever would. Some things just shouldn't be experienced in a wizard's life and even if he had been allowed his wand in the cell, he was yet to find a spell to take the feeling away. He would wake drenched in his own sweat, twisted in the ragged sheets with the feeling of a trapped scream in his throat, begging to be let loose. Not knowing how to take it all away, how to make it all better. Sometimes he worried that his parents were facing the same problems that he was. That they got trapped inside their minds, with no idea of how to escape. 

An awful lot of his time was spent wondering about how his father was handling everything. Draco was concerned most for his mother simply because he cared for her so deeply, but he knew that she had always been strong and knew how to take care of herself. How to take care of all of them. She had gone into the war with one goal: to see her family come out the other side. She had acted on her own conscious decisions to do what she thought was best in the darkest times. Lucius on the other hand had made his choice far too early and started to fall apart as the years went by. While Draco highly doubted his stance on the cause had changed he felt that perhaps his father had started to think that the Dark Lord's measures were too much, too extreme, towards the end. That he had started to realise the grave danger he had placed his family in. It had driven him mad in those final months, realising that he cared a whole lot less about whether they won or lost but instead about his wife and kid, who he had dragged through hell and back for a madman's dream. 

Draco didn't forgive his father for his choices, and he had lost respect for him quite a long time ago. He pitied him really. But like any child who is raised in his father's image, always wanting his praise and attention, it was a hard relationship for Draco to dismiss entirely. He wasn't sure he would have made any decisions differently had he been in his father's position. Lucius had never really been a great man to model himself after, but he was still Draco’s father and it was hard to make that separation sometimes.

Merlin, he needed help thinking this through. He was never one to turn to others for assistance though and he doubted that now would be his time to start. There was just so much struggle and confusion buried underneath the surface of his defeated Death Eater exterior that he didn't know what to do with.

Draco pressed his palms to his forehead and sighed, letting his shoulders slump with his exhale. He was in for a long few years, that was for sure.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://cdav.tumblr.com) for writing updates/other random things


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